


There is much music in this little organ

by Sharpiefan



Series: The Shakespeare Series [24]
Category: The London Life (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Cute, Cute Kids, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Music, Post-Canon, References to Shakespeare, Regency
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 22:01:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8595487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharpiefan/pseuds/Sharpiefan
Summary: Robbie's son wants him to play a certain piece of music... Robbie is not a musician. Random cute fluffiness.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [It is a wise father that knows his own child](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8161916) by [Sharpiefan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharpiefan/pseuds/Sharpiefan). 



> Hal is, as you probably know by now, Robbie and Bee's first son. In our head-canon he is ADHD, (which is going to lead to some amazingly interesting times...) and as part of that he is a musical prodigy. He is about six in this piece, which makes it a sort of companion or bookend to [It is a wise father that knows his own child](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8161916). Yes, Shakespeare titles (or at least, titles very heavily inspired by Shakespeare) are A Thing now. Blame Robbie's, uh, obsession...

_Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of_  
_me! You would play upon me; you would seem to know_  
_my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my_  
_mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to_  
_the top of my compass: and there is much music,_  
_excellent voice, in this little organ; yet cannot_  
_you make it speak. 'Sblood, do you think I am_  
_easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what_  
_instrument you will, though you can fret me, yet you_  
_cannot play upon me._  
      ~ Hamlet, Act 3 Scene 2

**Corton Abbey, spring 1822**

Bee had taken advantage of the break in the weather, and the natural break in her latest composition efforts to take herself and a basket of provisions into the village, to dispense a bit of much needed comfort to some of their poorest neighbours. This was a perfectly natural situation for Robbie – and for Bee, although she was still unused to the level of income they had which allowed her to do so. Bee was out, which meant that Robbie was left at home with the children, although Andrew and baby Hermione were being looked after by the nursemaid, leaving him alone with his eldest son. Hal had been occupying himself by spreading out several sheets of paper on which his father had helpfully ruled musical staves but which were otherwise blank, scribbling away and humming to himself, lost in his own world despite the fond glances Robbie sent his way every time he glanced up from his book.

Eventually Hal tumbled up into a sitting position. “Papa.”

Recognising the tone, Robbie fished for a bookmark and laid his book aside.

“Want you to play this.” Hal had bundled up some of the sheets and thrust them imperiously at his father's chest.

“We say 'please' in this house, Hal,” Robbie said mildly, removing the papers from close contact with his waistcoat so that he could actually see them.

“Please.” The tone was still imperious, and Robbie glanced up to see Hal standing in an attitude he had come to recognise: his eldest son was in the sort of mood where neither reasoning nor cajoling would be of any use, and the only thing to do would be to capitulate.

Unfortunately for Hal, Robbie had never learned to play the piano or any other musical instrument, concentrating on other things more crucial to his career. Music had been left to his sisters – when he sang, it was generally by ear and from memory.

“I can't, Hal – you know that.”

“Play it!” Hal's fists clenched and Robbie paused for a second, recognising the internal conflict. “Please?”

“Mama will be back soon, she will play it for you,” Robbie said, although he knew this was a losing battle – he and Bee had come to realise that their son was not naughty in the way that children could be, but saw the world differently, and the future, whether that was in ten minutes' time, or ten months' time, was a more than usually nebulous concept for him. 'Soon' was not 'now' and if he wanted something now, then he wanted it now.

To be fair, it was Bee who had recognised this and pointed it out to Robbie, whose only contact with children had been with his sisters and cousins growing up, and nodding from a distance at the wives and children belonging to the Fourteenth.

“I writed it, I want you to play it.” The danger signs were gathering, and Robbie drew a breath to try to head them off – the last thing he wanted was for Bee to return home to Hal throwing a tantrum, although it would be over within moments when she sat down at the pianoforte.

“I can't... but maybe you could show me?” Robbie said, getting up and gathering his son and his son's composition and stepping over the other sheets of paper still decorating the floor.

He sat down at the piano, smiling privately at the marquetry bee which was its only decoration other than the brass strips and corners, and the beautiful grains of the wood it was made from.

“All right – could you put these in the right order?” he asked, seating his son on his lap and giving the papers back to him.

“They are.” Hal leaned forward to place them on the music stand.

Of course they were.

“Which is the first note, then – that one?” Robbie poked randomly at an ivory key with a finger, and Hal's curly hair tickled his chin as the boy shook his head.

“ _I'll_ play it, then _you_ copy.”

Well, that was half the fight won, Robbie thought, smiling over his son's head where Hal couldn't see.

Hal was partway through the second sheet – his father being able to read music enough to know when to turn the page – when a door opened and closed deeper in the house, and footsteps sounded on the stairs.

The music stopped abruptly and Hal scrambled down off his father's lap to fling himself at his mother, who ruffled his hair indulgently.

“Hal's written something for you,” Robbie said, replacing the first handwritten sheet of music and sliding off the stool to cross to the fireplace.

“So I heard. Would you play it for me, Hal?” Bee said.

Robbie merely arched an eyebrow innocently as the child shook his head.

“ _You_ play it, Mama.” Hal took her hand and tugged her over to the piano, where she seated herself, smiling at the childish scrawl in one corner, a neat juxtaposition to the carefully-written musical notes. _For Mama._

Hal dropped to the floor to sit cross-legged, closing his eyes thoughtfully as she played, with Robbie watching his family with a fond smile unseen on his lips.


End file.
